The Next Good Day

Moving into the morning hours of the next day after the great escape – how the muscle-heads referenced it – Big Sal finally had the window people in replacing the one blown out at the getaway. She remained in no mood to tell a laborer how a window got blown out like it did.

“Just fix the damn thing!” And then there was the issue the laborers couldn’t keep their eyes off of the ladies - knowing what kind of joint this was. Then Big Sal’s alternating demand was yelled aloud, “Get your asses back to work!”

That one could’ve worked both ways.

Not much had come in in the two days since… no sign of the Pollack, as Tobias and Bloodhound kept to the highway and desert searches, now ranging into Pahrump… and she was wondering about the veteran’s friends… they never showed up. As she was walking the front, she split the curtains and looked out at the orange-red landscape, a perpetual dust seemed to cloud the view. Being nearly eight miles out from the center of Pahrump, The Zanzibar Club was still a needed, or wanted destination. It wasn’t like a convenience store, with folk drifting in or by, that was sure. And as she looked out, a crème-colored Chevy Impala pulled into the parking lot, stopped and sat a couple moments. It looked like one of those carful’s of rascally teens daring themselves to finally go through with it; the sort of client she still got a kick out of. Whether it was because she was spoiling them or despoiling them, she wasn’t sure. She leaned into the window for a better view.

This car was not filled with teens looking to grow hair and buy their first blowjob. Mature men… plenty of hair on the two faces she could see.

The car then advanced, nearing the Porte cochere, and slowing, getting a look at the peering woman… then drove out the other entry to the parking lot, and then to the dirt track that led back out to 160. It could’ve been a wrong guess, wrong GPS coordinates… but she felt it was more than that. It got her back to her slim clientele, and she picked up the extra phone she carried with her and punched in a message.

“Hey, Cliff. Didn’t see you last night when we got back from Cali. You get here or what?” She looked back out the window and saw Silkie’s car coming in. It was some of the 10:00 o'clock shift just getting there… at 10:06, she noted. She would grouse about it at a more appropriate time when she needed to bark them down some.

Just then, the Nye County Sheriff’s Ford Expedition pulled into her parking lot. Something she was sure would be returning, and it wouldn’t improve her attitude… Right after the Sheriff’s truck, came Detective Harry Bunting’s Bronco… “Shit!”

Not a good start to the day.

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“I want to thank you for your cooperation, Miss Burroughs.” Sheriff Coyle always stayed decidedly neutral and solicitous, but never friendly… not with the proprietor of The Zanzibar Club. History prevented her from having a good attitude about the proprietor… about the joint. Too much of this, and too much of that, and not enough peace. And then about 4-5 years ago, men started going stray… and too frequently Big Gal Sal’s establishment was supposed to be the sorry sonsofbitches' last destination. There never seemed to be the proof… the vital clue… the breathing or unbreathing body. “You know how I hate botherin’ you and your hard-working women.”

Big Sal always thought this was some intended offense… “hard-working women”… she would chuckle at it, because there was no offense she could suffer. She just didn’t work that way.

“No problem Darlene. You guys come and go as you need. But I’m getting pretty perturbed by all this… not good for business.”

“Not good for Margot either, eh, Sal?”

“No. Not good for my girl either. So, what is it today, Darlene? You and Harry goin’ to turn our beds for us? Refresh the linens? Maybe make sure of our stock of condoms is up to code?”

Darlene Coyle knew right where to file this ornery outburst… right in the same wastebasket that that Johnny Decencies’ tirade fell into.

“No, Miss Burroughs. No, Harry just needs to get back into the Roman room and look around.”

“Okay, I’ll get Leonard to escort the detective. We got clients. I really don’t want them gettin’ wind of this. I already contacted our attorney… and no adverse effects on business… that’s what he warned.”

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph’ Darlene thought, but she said something else, “Wise man. I suppose. But I must also remind you, if your… uh… attorney didn’t. There’s a thing called obstruction of justice. We don’t look kindly on that.”

“Not stoppin’ ya, Darlene. Just reminding ya, we are an operating business, and privacy and ambience are biggies.”

“Hmmm, I always thought it was cans and cootchies.” This was so flagrantly not the respectable Sheriff Coyle, Big Sal concluded she ought to cooperate with a song moving ahead.

“I’m here to help, Sheriff.”

Darlene turned to Harry, “You remember where Rome is, don’t ya?”

“I do, Sheriff. Right, when you get to Paris.” Harry chuckled… a lot. The two ladies not at all.

“Good, then you go ahead…” she pivoted back to Big Sal, “…unless Miss Burroughs has got something more to say about our interfering with her business?”

“No, no ma’am. Go right ahead Harry. Leonard will meet you there.” With that decided, Big Sal needed to conclude this as soon as possible. Then her phone… well, the other phone whooshed with a text.

“We’re here. Stayed at LaQuinta. Didn’t want to come over until we knew you guys were there. Stevie got a little nervous. Chicken feathers.”

Big Sal was thinking… she didn’t have enough info on all the guys in the vet’s party, and her calls into Jack were going to voicemail… feeling a little cornered, she would wait to respond to “Cliff.”

“You need to take that Miss Burroughs, you go right ahead. I’ll wait.”

“No, not important. A client coming to town later.” She slid the “Mark” phone back into her pocket. “So, how can I help you, Darlene, while Leonard helps answer Harry’s questions?”

“Only one thing, if you can. According to Harry’s report, you had three customers logged in two days ago… mid-day or something, I think?”

“Nope. No new customers… that would be Thursday?”

“Yes, Thursday. The day of the murder.” Darlene was eyeballing Big Sal, and nothing else.

“You wanna verify it against the registry? We don’t have any new clients until Friday evening.”

“No, I’m sure your registry is blank for Thursday.” She paused to let that one sink in if it would. “So, Hopscotch tellin’ my detective that he dropped three new clients off mid-day Thursday? Are you telling me he’s wrong? Stupid? Lying?”

Big Sal rankled at the challenge, knowing she fucked up timelines, stories… being vague was not always the best ruse. “Hopscotch? He lies, drinks, cokes-up, and he’s a stupid man who lies. You trusting that lazy turd? You go right ahead, I’m sure your investigation is gonna find real gold.”

“No, not sure I trust him, or anybody,” again the pause for reflection, and emotional ticks, "...but I gotta ask the questions.” Sheriff Coyle went back to the old standard, she had to retrieve video in two other cases at The Zanzibar Club, so here we go again. “I see your security above. That catches the full desk activity, I know, right? I mean since we had to do this stuff before.”

“Yes, Sheriff, the whole entry. Now you know it’s against client’s rights to video through substantial areas due to… well you know.”

“Of course I do, Miss Burroughs. And that’s as it should be, no problem, and I sure as hell got no interest in seein’ more. But I’m just wondering if you couldn’t give me the tape of that Thursday day and night…” humming in thought, “Let’s say from about 2:00 o'clock to midnight. I’m sure that would cover it.”

“I promise you, Sheriff, we got no new clients on Thursday, but I’ll give you the tape from Thursday. Sure.” Big Sal continued in a huff, the first symptom of anxiousness if Darlene Coyle was any good.

*********************

Yusef took the call and packed a small duffel. His instructions to his associates were exactly as he had received. He picked up Lenin first, who was sitting on a fireplug at the curb in a densely crowded section of apartments and tenements in the darker rim of life in Istanbul. Ule was a short drive from there. Both efficiently packed, with no more than a couple nights’ stay of clothing, and cologne. The efficiency of travel, part of their occupation; the cologne, their habits. Where they came from, and what they did for a living, they were in fast and out faster, and they never knew what the accommodations would provide. The cologne would disguise their rancid circumstances in the worst of cases; it would make them smell like they were regular folk in the best of them. It was also one of the few luxuries they allowed themselves.

Each of the partners knew of Las Vegas, they all responded in some excitement, and all were brought back to earth and their assignments in the same words spoken. “You won’t be staying in Las Vegas, though. I don’t know the town, but we will be picked up at the airport.”

It was just the briefest disappointment, because, as curious as men with a recorded history in their industry could be, with no conscience for where or whom or how, they maintained an unfavorable disposition about the West, and Las Vegas may have been the beating heart of that unprincipled life of excess. It was disgusting. But that was America.

The three men drove an old, nondescript Peugeot, faded blue, not factory, but sunburnt.

It was nearly a 10-hour drive to Bucharest. The men, despite being friends, joked little, spoke sparingly. Each rotated into sleep when they could. Paramilitary pasts defined them as much as brick-hard jaws and lean athletic frames. They had a plane awaiting them in Romania. And they would have a long trail of nothing behind them. Their presence in the States would be nondescript as foreigners going to Las Vegas was as common as tobacco on the streets of Istanbul. Their return, as suspected, would be as swift and clandestine.

The little they did laugh was when they were informed of their cover, “You are all contractors flying and entertaining on company dollars. Just like Americans.” They laughed because they knew there was no real expense budget… just a payoff at the end.

They would make their plane on time, and depart on time. The things you could never account for, were all going well. Yusef called his contact in the states… as he was told, “Call anytime.”

“Hello?”

“We’re boarding. We should be in your Las Vegas in maybe 13 hours.”

“Good. That’s good. Text me when you arrive. I’ll personally pick you up. Only two people know anything about you, and I’m the only one stateside. We need this shit cleaned up, quick.”

“That’s what we do. Just make sure we have our equipment. I’ll text you when we arrive. Identify your vehicle then.” He didn’t wait on a response and disconnected.

They would probably sleep most of the way there. In their history, they had to learn to sleep through mortar barrages and sniper fire. Sleeping on a plane would come easy.

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